In fields where whispers once sang soft,
Now echoes of the past do roar,
The ground stained red with dreams aloft,
As war’s cruel hand does once more score.

The sky, a canvas of ashen grey,
Holds silent screams that fade away,
Beneath the boots that march astray,
Through lands where peace had tried to stay.

Bones of hope lie scattered bare,
Amidst the rubble, hearts laid bare,
A symphony of mournful air,
As nations weep in cold despair.

Yet in the shadows, light persists,
A flicker of what’s been dismissed,
For even in the darkest mist,
The dawn will rise, the sun insists.